Well, Repzik was one of the best. I knew him nearly twenty years, all told. From back on Vardan,
even before we were drafted into the Guard together. The parts from the sentinel I used to buy this
leg? It was Repzik who went into no-man’s land to get them for me. Like I said, a good man. But
no, to answer your question, it wasn’t Repzik who told me about your misfortune. It was Kell.
Though by then I had heard about it from other sources anyway.”
“Other sources? Who?”
The Navy. About half an hour ago Sector Command forwarded us a message from an orbiting
troopship, requesting that we inform the Guard company they’d just dropped that this planet wasn’t
in fact Seltura VII. Apparently they forgot to tell you this, what with all the excitement of the drop
and so forth. A regrettable oversight caused by a temporary failure in the lines of communication.
Those were their exact words I believe. A S.N.A.F.U., as we call such things in these parts.”
“A S.N.A.F.U.?”
46
“Situation Normal All Fouled Up. An apt and well-used acronym here in Broucheroc. Though
you can substitute other words for fouled if you so desire.”
“But if they have realised their mistake, does that mean I am being reassigned?” Larn asked, his
heart grown suddenly hopeful.
“No, new fish. Frankly, the fact the troopship chose to relay the news of your company’s
predicament at all was more by the way of an afterthought. The main purpose of their message was
to demand to know what the hell we had done with their lander. I am told their response when they
heard the lander had been shot down and would not be returning was unrepeatable. By now, they are
likely already underway again and far from this planet.”
“So, I am stuck here,” Larn said glumly.
“You and the rest of us, new fish,” Vladek said, bending forward to delve through a boxful of
grey-black coats sitting under the table. “Now, drink your recaf and we will see about getting you
sorted. A new greatcoat in urban camouflage pattern would seem as good a place to start as any. It
will help you blend in and make you less of a target, not to mention keeping you warm. This time of
year it’s cold enough to have a man passing ice cubes every time he voids his bladder. I have one
here that should fit you perfectly, give or take. No need to worry too much about the blood on the
lapels. I am sure you will find it brushes off easily enough once it has had time to dry.”
Ten minutes later, courtesy of Corporal Vladek’s scavenged stores, Larn found himself the new
owner of a greatcoat, a pair of woollen gloves, two frag grenades, a fur-covered helmet, a small
lump of whetstone, and a comm-bead tuned to the local comm-link frequencies used by the
Vardans. Then, as Larn finished the last bitter mouthful of ersatz recaf from his cup, Vladek asked
to see his dog-tags and wrote his name and number on a clipboard beside him.
“That is it for now, new fish,” Vladek said. “You will need to come back here and see me again
in fifteen hours’ time. Then I can issue you with some of the more valuable and sought-after pieces
of equipment: hotshot power packs for your lasgun, extra frag grenades, a laspistol, smoke grenades,
and so on.”
“Why fifteen hours?” Larn asked.
“Phah. You will learn soon enough in this place there are some questions it is better not to ask,
new fish. That is one of them. Just come see me again in fifteen hours, and try not to think about it
in the meantime. Oh, and new fish? I almost forgot. You will need one of these! ”
Removing a slim black copy of The Imperial Infantryman’s Uplifting Primer from a shelf
behind him, Vladek offered it to Larn across the table.
“But I already have one, corporal,” Larn said. “I was issued with my copy of the Primer on my
first day of basic training back on Jumael.”
“Congratulations, new fish,” Vladek said. “Now, you have two copies. You will need them, and
it is better not to get caught short. You will find this little book to be a vital tool when it comes to
the nitty-gritty of day-to-day living here in Broucheroc. The paper it is printed on is most
absorbent.”
Handing him the book along with his dog-tags, Vladek turned to the hotplate to pour another
steaming cup of recaf.
“Anyway, that’s enough equipment for you to be getting on with, new fish,” Vladek said,
turning back towards Larn and nodding at something behind him. “Next, we should see about
getting you fixed up with a fireteam. Fortunately here comes our company commander, right on
cue.”
Seeing a figure in a greatcoat approaching through the corner of his eye, Larn stood bolt upright
from his chair and saluted smartly. Only to find himself facing the same Vardan sergeant he had
seen lead the counterattack against the orks earlier.
“Why is there a new fish saluting me, Vladek?” the sergeant said, stepping past Larn to take a
cup of recaf from the corporal’s hand. “He has mistaken me for a general perhaps?”
47
“An entirely understandable mistake given your commanding presence and natural air of
authority, sergeant,” Vladek said, smiling. “Then again, I had just told him you are our company
commander. Perhaps he thinks that makes you a lieutenant.”
“A lieutenant? I am disappointed, Vladek. If I am going to be mistaken for an officer, I thought I
would have rated colonel at least.” Then, the merest suggestion of a smile ghosting at his lips, the
sergeant turned, back to Larn. “You can put your hand down by the way, trooper. Even if I was a
lieutenant, we don’t hold much with saluting here. It only gives the orks something extra to aim at. I
assume you have a name? Other than new fish I mean?”
“Trooper First Class Larn, Arvin A, reporting for duty, sergeant!” Larn said, his hand falling but
his back still ramrod straight as he stood to attention. “Number: eight one five seven six dash—
“At ease, Larn,” the sergeant told him. “Save it for the parade ground. As I say, we don’t stand
much on ceremony here. All right then. I take it you have already given your name and number to
Corporal Vladek so he can forward them to General HQ?”
“Yes, sergeant.”
“Good. It may be that HQ will order you reassigned to duties elsewhere in the city. In the
meantime standing orders on the disposition of new troops are clear. You were dropped into our
sector: that means you belong to us. You are hereby seconded to the 902nd Vardan until further
notice, Larn. Welcome to Company Alpha. My name is Chelkar. Until you are assigned elsewhere
or HQ gets around to sending us a new lieutenant you will be taking your orders from me. We are
clear?”
“Clear, sergeant.”
“How long since you took the eagle?”
“The eagle, sergeant?”
“I mean: how long is it since you were inducted into the Guard?”
“Four months, sergeant.”
“Four months? You are green then? You haven’t seen much action?”
“No. Today was my first engagement, sergeant.”
“Hmm. Well, you survived it at least. I suppose that shows us something.” For a moment, his
eyes grown suddenly sad and distant, Chelkar fell silent. Certain he was being judged somehow by
that silence, Larn felt a rising urge to defend his worth.
“You do not need to worry, sergeant,” he said. “I will not let anyone down. I am a Guardsman. I
will do my duty.”
“I am sure you will, Larn.” Chelkar’s expression was grave. “But remember, part of that duty is
for you to keep yourself alive so you can fight again tomorrow. To that end, you will do the
following things. You will follow orders. You will keep your eyes and ears open. You will watch
your comrades’ backs, just as they will watch yours. But most of all, there will be no heroics. No
fool-hardiness. No unnecessary risks. This is Broucheroc, Larn. There are no heroes here: the orks
keep killing them. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes, sergeant.”
“All right then,” Chelkar said, before turning to call out to one of the Guardsmen standing beside
the stove. “Davir. Come over here and meet our new recruit.”
In response to Chelkar’s call, Larn saw a stocky diminutive Vardan move away from the stove
and come walking towards them. With a sinking heart, he recognised him at once as the same ugly
dwarfish Guardsman who had given him his lasgun back after the battle.
“Davir, this is Larn.”
“We have met already, sergeant. Hello, new fish.”
“Good,” said the sergeant. “Larn, I am assigning you to Fireteam Three under Davir’s
command.”
48
“With all due respect, sergeant,” Davir said, “given the new fish’s lack of experience, wouldn’t
it be better to assign him somewhere else until he finds his feet. Fireteam Three is a frontline unit,
after all.”
“This whole company is a frontline unit, Davir,” Chelkar said. “If you can think of anywhere I
could send him in this entire sector where the orks wouldn’t be shooting at him, I’d be glad to hear
of it. Besides, your fireteam is under strength. You need him and I am sure I can rely upon you to
look after him and show him the ropes.”
“You are right of course, sergeant,” Davir said, grudgingly. “Come on then, new fish. Get your
kit and follow me. We have orks to kill, you and I.”
Turning, Davir strode away at a surprisingly brisk stride, forcing Larn to hurry his own pace to
catch up. Then, as Davir walked through the door at the end of the barracks and headed up the steps
out of the dugout, from behind him Larn heard the Vardan muttering venomously to himself under
his breath.
“Need him,” he heard Davir whisper to himself. “Need him, my Vardan arse! Like I need to be
nursemaiding a damn new fish. As though having had to spend ten years in the company of that fat
halfwit Bulaven wasn’t bad enough, now they’ve gone and saddled me with a war virgin just to add
to my woes. Damnation!”
Reaching the head of the steps to emerge into the cold air outside, Davir turned to give Larn a
withering glare as he waited for him to catch up.
“Come on, new fish. I haven’t got all day. Though I suppose I should thank the heavens for
small mercies that you’ve managed to negotiate the stairs without losing your lasgun again. Not that
I mean that as an invitation, mind. You lose that damned thing again, don’t expect me to go finding
it for you. You want to go around confronting orks with no other weapons than what nature gave
you, next time you’re on your own. I’ll leave you to it. Now, come on. Let’s get moving and when
we’re heading for the trench, keep your damned fool head down. Not that I’ve got any qualms about
seeing the orks blow your head off, you understand. I just don’t want to run the risk of the damned
greenskins missing and hitting me instead.”
So it went on, with Davir unleashing a constant tirade of insults and complaints as, trailing in his
wake, Larn followed him up the low rise towards the firing trenches and the frontline. As they ran
half-crouched towards their destination and the tirade continued, Larn abruptly found himself briefly
entertaining a notion that until a few minutes before would have never occurred to him.
Suddenly, he found himself feeling strangely nostalgic for the good old days of Sergeant Ferres.
49
CHAPTER EIGHT
14:59 hours Central Broucheroc Time
Casualties of War — Thoughts on the Killing of Generals — Scholarly Answers and Insights — On
Vital Supplies & The Many and Varied Uses of Prophylactics — The Mathematics of Slaughter &
Questions of Life Expectancy at the Front — The Facts of Life as According to Davir
For once, the printing press was silent. Though Lieutenant Delias had always considered the
constant clattering of the machine to be a source of much-cursed irritation, now it was idle he found
the sound of its silence filled him with dread. Sitting at his desk in the claustrophobic confines of his
cluttered office, he looked across the fractured glass of the top half of the partition wall separating
him from the print room and felt his stomach churn in anxiety as he watched the militia auxiliaries
who made up his staff go about their labours. The aged caretakers Cern and Votank were busy
maintaining the ancient parts of the press itself: Cern oiling the machine’s rollers, while Votank
topped up the ink reservoir ready for the next edition. Nearby, head bobbing and his face moving in
involuntary tics, the feeble-minded cripple Shulen stumbled past them with a broom flailing
spasmodically in his hands as he attempted to sweep the floor. Only the compositor Pheran was
without a task. His features pinched in an expression somewhere between expectancy and
annoyance, he stood beside the empty expanse of the typesetting board and gazed back towards
Delias through the glass. Then, seeing he had met the lieutenant’s eyes, Pheran raised a hand to
point at the chronometer hanging above the printing press in a gesture of mute accusation.
1500 hours, Delias thought, his heart sinking as his eyes followed the direction of Pheran’s bony
finger to glance at the chronometer. We only have an hour now before I have to deliver the late
edition to Commissar Valkfor approval. A single hour! I must find something to write. Anything!
Despairing, Delias returned his attention to the dozens of official papers piled in confusion
across his desk. Among the jumbled mass of documents before him were copies of situation reports,
battlefield dispatches, casually statistics, terse communiqués, comms transcripts: between them
comprising a record of every event of consequence that had happened in the city of Broucheroc in
the past twelve hours. Despite what seemed like hours now spent surveying the assembled weight of
information before him, Delias had found nothing there to suit his purpose.
There is no good news to report, he thought bleakly. Today, the same as every other day, there is
only bad news and I cannot print that. The commissar would have me shot on the spot.
His thoughts drifted back to the day two years previously when he had first heard the news that
he was being posted to the imposing edifice of the General Headquarters building in the centre of
Broucheroc. At first, sure he was going to be rewarded with a staff assignment, he had rejoiced.
Then, when they brought him to the dingy basement print room to tell him it would be his task to
produce a twice-daily newsletter and propaganda sheet for the edification of the city’s defenders, his
heart had thrilled even more. It had seemed the answer to all his prayers: a staff and an office of his
